Bad Judgment
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Is it a ride home or an interrogation?


Disclaimer: These aren't my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note:**This one follows on after Cheri's epilogue to 'Rolling Thunder'. Suzanne wanted to know what Barb Johnson might've told Hardcastle about Mark, on that drive back from Las Vegas. And thanks, Joni, for that one extra line. ;-)

There are references not only to Cheri's epilogue, but to mine for 'Outlaw Champion' and to my story 'A Twist of Fate', and to Cheri's theory (seconded by me) that Mark did a separate stint at Clarkville Prison—to account for the staff and inmate's familiarity with him there, and the statement he made in RT about already having two felony convictions.

Enough with the notes—

**Bad Judgment**

by L.M. Lewis

They made the stop just before the Nevada/California border, a little convenience store with a public phone. Barbara Johnson watched Hardcastle climb out and stroll over to the phone—his calm far exceeding her own. She'd been dwelling on the distance between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and the fact that Mark, if he was going to make it back for his all-important five o'clock parole meeting, would have to average a little better than ninety miles an hour.

He had no registration papers for the Coyote, and anyone running a routine traffic stop on him would quickly discover that he had unfinished business with the State of California. It had the feel of a set-up, with failure almost a certainty. She wasn't sure why none of this had occurred to her back in Las Vegas. Maybe it had been Judge Hardcastle's cheerful demeanor as he sent Mark off on his way. Or maybe it had been Mark's own unquestioning acceptance.

But then he'd also walked into Cody's plant and taken the Coyote, at no more than her request, and look where that had landed him.

She frowned. She watched the judge pull change out of his pocket and dump it on the ledge below the phone. This was obviously not going to be one quick call. He dialed, dropped coins, and talked for a while, then repeated the process three more times. The last one was the longest conversation.

He sauntered back to the truck. She raised an inquiring eyebrow as he climbed in.

"Flagrant necessity," he said with a tight smile. "San Bernardino and LA counties, the CHiPs, and his parole officer. Think that oughta cover it?" His smile broadened a bit as she lunged forward and managed a half-hug in the tight confines. "Okay, okay," he shook free, still smiling. "I just don't want him thinking he can make a habit of it—you givin' him that firecracker and all." There was a hint of a question in that last part.

"The Coyote?" she asked quietly. There was no doubt in her mind, none at all. "Dad would've wanted him to have it."

"Your dad and McCormick were close, huh?"

She nodded, blinking back tears. The past few days had been so chaotic that she'd almost been able to shelve her grief. Hate and anger could be a comfort sometimes. Now Cody was behind bars and there was nothing but the loss left to deal with.

"Close," she finally said, "yeah . . . like family." She managed a smile.

"I figured it had to be something like that, him risking so much to get that car." Hardcastle kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Whose idea was that harebrained stunt, anyway?"

Barb flashed a quick look to the side. The judge had slipped the question in as if it were of no particular importance, but he seemed more focused than before, as if he'd be paying a great deal of attention to the answer.

Mark had warned her when he'd dropped the vehicle off, right after he'd repossessed it for her. 'Don't tell anyone _anything_ about this. Not a word.' But that had been before, and now the Coyote was theirs—_his_—free and clear. Besides, she thought the judge ought to know the truth.

"Mine. My idea. I told him Cody had killed Dad. I asked him to get the car back for me. He said it would be risky—"

"Damn _straight_," Hardcastle snapped back, and then, a little less harshly, he grumbled, "Sorry. But it _was_. Risky doesn't even say half of it. I'm surprised he got as far as he did with it."

She nodded, sneaking another look to the side. Hardcastle was shaking his head and scowling.

She finally said softly, "Maybe we were both a little crazy. I guess we weren't thinking too clearly, at least I wasn't."

There was a bit of silence and then Hardcastle finally grudged, "Yeah. It happens like that when you lose someone. But still," he sighed, "two days later and I wouldn't have been able to help him. You understand that? It wouldn't have been just a parole violation. Cody was a powerful guy with political interests. The list of charges the D.A. had drawn up woulda cost that kid ten years."

Barbara paled. "Did Mark know that?"

The judge hmmphed. "Smart jailhouse lawyer like him? He could do the math, I'll bet. Hell, he must've known it'd be near that, even_ without_ the complications."

"You mean beforehand—he knew it then?" She took in his steady nod at a glance, then leaned her head back slightly and let out a long breath. "I never should've asked him."

"Well, yeah, maybe you shoulda gone to the cops with your suspicions."

"I_ did_. I talked to the officer who came and told me what had happened to Dad. He patted me on the hand like I was a hysterical child. Mark's the only one who would listen. The only one who would_ do_ anything about it"

Hardcastle cast her a quick sideward look, then settled his gaze back on the road again. "He shouldn't've either. Not if he had any sense."

Barbara felt a hackle or two rising amid her guilt. "If he hadn't, then Cody would've gotten away with it."

Hardcastle gave her a grudging nod. "Okay, he should've listened to you about that part, but not the rest. Not stealing the car."

"What then?"

"Me. He coulda told me."

Barbara felt her jaw go slack. Her mouth was open but nothing was coming out. There weren't any words that would cover it. "_You_?" was what she finally said.

"Why not?" Hardcastle asked, as if he had no idea he'd suggested something impossible. "I'm an officer of the court. He knew me."

"He _hates_ you," she said. It was flat-out exasperation, and it hung there for a moment before she realized it wasn't the most politic thing to say to Mark's new employer. "Or, anyway, um—" She was stumbling over a retraction when she realized that the man next to her was chuckling at her discomfiture.

"Don't worry, kiddo, he's already stated his position in open court. I can show you the transcript if ya want. I can see why you two get along; neither one of you knows how to hold anything back."

She smiled ruefully, and still a little nervously. "Okay, well, I guess he didn't make much of a secret of it. Dad didn't like you very much either, and he never even _met_ you."

She noticed he wasn't asking her how she'd felt about him and, in truth, if someone had asked her last week, she would have offered the family line—he was that crazy judge who'd sent Mark up the river for driving his own car.

But now things had gotten a little more complicated. Now he was also the guy who'd helped catch her father's murderer.

"I told you," she said, trying to quietly retrench, "Mark won't run. He'll do whatever he said he'd do for you. That's just how he is."

The judge seemed to accept the slight change of topic with nothing more than a nod. There was a half-mile or more of silence.

"How long have you known him?" he asked, almost casual again.

Barb felt one eyebrow going back up. It was an innocent enough question, though, and the answer was a long enough time that she had to do some double-digit subtraction in her head.

"Twelve years," she said, finally. "He showed up down in Florida—said he'd read an article in one of the car magazines about my dad. He was driving an old Impala. It was in perfect condition; it looked like he'd put a lot of work into it."

"He was seventeen?" Hardcastle said, frowning.

"Well," Barb launched a small frown of her own, "he said he was older, but later on, when Dad was helping him get his racing papers, they had to get a copy of his birth certificate . . ."

"He lied?" Hardcastle asked, with a mildness that surprised her.

She felt slightly encouraged. She supposed it might be an interrogation technique—that she was being put at ease—but it actually sounded as if the man might understand some of this.

"'Flagrant necessity'," she said, quoting Hardcastle's own recent precedent. "He was on his own. He was looking for honest work. He couldn't _afford_ to be a kid."

"Your dad took him in?"

"He gave him a job," she said stoutly. "He worked hard and Dad couldn't afford to pay him much—every cent he had was going into engines, and parts and tools. It was room and board, mostly, and the room was the garage for a while.

"Mark did some repossession work on the side. That was kind of informal, too—because he was so young—but it was repossessions, that's all."

That elicited a grunt from the man behind the wheel—it wasn't clear if it was acceptance or disbelief.

"Well," she admitted, "once in a while there were problems with the paperwork. We had to go bail him out one time, all the way up in Georgia." She found herself grinning slyly at the memory. "Dad brought me along. It was supposed to be for the sympathy factor. I put my hair up in pigtails for him."

Hardcastle was giving her a questioning look..

"I was _fourteen._ Mark was my first crush. The last thing I wanted to do was have him see me in _pig_tails." She shook her head at the ignominy of it. "But off we went to Charlton County to get him out of the slammer. I think he was almost as embarrassed as I was."

She felt the smile fading.

"Dad made him promise to give it up after that, and it lasted for a while . . . but he was good at it. I think he liked it, too—the thrill, you know. And the money was good. Everybody around there knew he'd take these awful chances. He'd do jobs nobody else was willing to touch. That's what Dad said."

"You said he won't go back on his word." There was a pointed element of doubt to the judge's tone.

"See," she said impatiently, "you're making up your mind without the facts. You're not supposed to do that."

The judge stayed silent.

"Dad had a bad run of luck. A couple of engines blew. It was lousy timing. Mark had started driving for him and had run up some wins in a few smaller races. We found out later on that he'd had an offer to be back-up driver for one of the other, bigger teams. He turned them down. I asked him, this was years later, why the heck he hadn't taken the job—Dad wouldn't have stood in his way.

"Mark said he owed Dad too much. Honest to God, he slept in the garage for three months but he thought my dad had done him this huge favor.

"So, instead, he went back to the repo work, so he'd be available when Dad had another car ready."

Things went silent again. She almost didn't notice, as lost in her thoughts as she was. She wasn't sure how much time had elapsed before she heard a fairly gently throat-clearing from the driver's side.

She hesitated for a moment more, and then said, "He told me you've got a file on him."

She saw him nod once, fairly decisively.

Well," she sighed, "it was still just a repossession. But it was a really fancy car and the guy who wasn't making the payments had a brother-in-law who was a hotshot prosecutor."

"So that's why it was trespass instead of felony theft?" Hardcastle said, as though she had answered a question he had been wondering about.

"Yeah, they were threatening to charge him with burglary. It would have been a second degree felony."

"How? You said he had the papers for the repossession."

"There was stuff in the trunk of the car—a leather coat, some other things—"

"Repo guys aren't responsible for personal property."

"_See_," Barb said, "I told you—it was all trumped up charges. The guy said Mark had taken those things from the house. It would have been burglary _and _felony theft."

"Did he?"

"Of_ course_ not," Barbara sighed with exasperation. "But his public defender advised him to plea it down to misdemeanor trespass. Sixty days in the county jail."

Hardcastle pursed his lips for a moment in apparent consideration and then said, "Yeah, well, if they were willing to let him do that, it meant they didn't think they had a solid case in the first place."

"They were talking about five years of his life, Judge. He was twenty-one. He took the sixty days and shut up."

"That had to be a first," the judge chuckled. "The kid never shuts up." Then he glanced sharply to his side and said, "You seem to have the Florida statutes pretty much in hand. You were, what, about seventeen then?"

"About." Barbara felt herself blushing slightly. "I don't know, Judge, it all seemed pretty unfair."

"There's rules. You gotta follow them. Helps to know them, though, or have someone handy who does." He gave her another, longer, more speculative look. "You're going to law school, huh?"

Her blush deepened. She finally nodded. "I've been talking about it for years. Mark said I should; he said it'd be better than me just sitting around ranting about how goofy everything is."

"The law's not 'goofy'."

"Maybe not, but the way it gets enforced sure is sometimes."

"Okay, maybe." Hardcastle shook his head. "_Sometimes_."

She raised one eyebrow, surprised by even that much of an admission. The eyebrow came back down. She frowned out at the desert landscape. "So when Dad finally had a hot car to run, Mark wasn't available."

"This sounds like some kinda bad O.Henry story."

"Yeah, really. But Mark understood. You've got the car ready, and the race lined up—you have to go for it." Her mouth tightened slightly. There'd been some discussion about that between her and her father. Mark had understood, but she, at seventeen, had been slightly less realistic.

"And when he got out, he headed for California." Now, thinking it over, she wondered if maybe Mark hadn't understood quite so well, either. "He said he thought maybe he'd do better out here and, anyway, he said he couldn't do any repossessing in Florida anymore—the only stuff they'd offer him would be even iffier that that last one.

"I woulda thought he'd have given it up."

"Well, he said he was going to, and mostly what he did here was race. Dad came out for a while and ran some cars. Then people got interested in his designs—and Mark was doing okay too. He was in the top two on the Outlaw Circuit a few years ago."

"Didn't win it, huh?"

"No, but he came so close. He blew an engine in the last race. That was a shame."

She fell silent again. Just how much of a shame she didn't really want to go into, although if the man had Mark's file, he surely must know about this, too.

"That's when he went back into the 'repo' biz, huh?" Hardcastle prodded dryly.

Yes, he clearly knew. Barb reached up and rubbed her temple.

"He got in pretty deep. He'd put everything into that ride, and there wasn't anyone _legit_ he could have borrowed money from."

"Not your father?"

"My dad never had a cent that wasn't already tied up in his own engines . . . at least not till recently." She sighed. "The man Mark owed money to was very bad news. That was . . . bad judgment."

"That was fourteen months in Clarksville for felony auto theft."

"But after that he swore to me he wouldn't do any more repossessions—legit _or_ iffy." Her frown had tightened. "That woman, Melinda Marshall," she couldn't keep the scorn out of her voice, "did you _meet_ her?"

"Only on the witness stand. She seemed credible—especially with the kid's record. The jury believed her. And her name was on the papers. That Porsche was _hers_."

"And the Coyote was Cody's."

"The papers were signed over to her. She didn't kill anybody to get it—"

"She might as well have." Barbara glared. Her gaze met nothing defensive. The man seemed perfectly at ease. She felt herself backing down. She finally said, "The letters he wrote . . ."

"From Quentin?"

She nodded.

"Well, it's a _prison_."

"No . . . you don't get it." She bit her lip, and searched for the words to explain it. "He never talked about that place, hardly a word. Not what was happening. Not how he was feeling. Not a _word_. It was as if he thought we wouldn't understand, or we couldn't stand to hear about it."

"So what did he write about?"

"Old times. The future. Anything but where he was." She shook her head slightly. "If you ask him, even now, he'll tell you he played a lot of baseball."

A tight little silence settled in between them. More miles under the tires of the tired old truck.

"So," Hardcastle finally said, in a musing tone that harbored nothing threatening, "why'd you ask him?"

Her eyes jerked up from a muse of her own. She looked at him questioningly.

"To steal the Coyote," the judge explained patiently. "Though I'll admit 'steal' is kinda relative in this case, but it wasn't five days ago. His ex-girlfriend only cost him two years. You mighta got him sent up for ten."

"I know, I know. I get it. Bad judgment." She shook her head. "And it's easy with him, you know. He'll do it. He's a friend, and he thinks there's no risk you don't take for a friend."

"No risk he doesn't take, period," Hardcastle muttered.

"Okay," Barb finally smiled slightly, "maybe some of that, too."

She squinted slightly at the sun, starting to pick up some orange from the western cloud bank. She looked down at her watch—it was after four-thirty. The judge looked over at her, taking in her movements with a cursory glance.

"Don't worry," he said firmly. "It's settled."

"Lots of things have been settled for him," she said, with half a challenge in her voice, "and lots of things have fallen through."

"Not this one."

She gave him a steady gaze—the man she no longer could sum up using only the previously approved adjective, though 'crazy' still seemed to fit in some ways.

"I hope not," she said fervently. "I really hope not."


End file.
